Page 112 of Mob Knight

Puta.

Bitch.

“But this claim of a fire makes no sense, since we had another complaint against you an hour ago.”

“Someone filed the complaint an hour ago, or my alleged misconduct was an hour ago?”

“Both.”

“I was unconscious an hour ago while a doctor sewed me up. Unless I was talking in my sleep, and somebody on Staten Island heard me all the way in Queens, that’s not possible.”

“Which hospital are you at?”

“They won’t release whether or not I’m a patient.”

Motherfucker. Guess she’s over her miniscule concern.

“You can tell me.”

“I’ll bring the doctor’s note.”

“Why’re you being awkward, Jocelyn?”

“Because something isn’t right. I’ve worked for you for years and had nothing but glowing reviews. Now someone’s lying about me. I don’t feel comfortable giving out anything personal right now.”

“You’ve been an excellent employee until the past month. Ever since you started dating a mobster. You of all people. I never thought you’d lower yourself to?—”

“Martha, I’d stop while you’re ahead. You’re one of the few people who knows about my family because of my background check. I wouldn’t speak ill of anyone in my life.”

No one’s going to whack her. No one’s even going to become a second shadow. But a healthy dose of fear will shut her up.

“I want you to be safe, but I need you to be less disruptive at work. I have to shift cases around, so people can cover for you.”

Keep your big girl panties on—if you were wearing them.

Don’t quit. Don’t quit. Don’t quit.

It’s thoroughly tempting, but that doesn’t resolve my problems. I won’t give in to Martha or whoever this is. They can suck it.

“Pass along my apologies to them, too. It’s Tuesday now. I should be back to work by Monday. That’s no longer than I’d be out for the flu.”

That’s assuming Cormac lets me go back. He won’t let me see how shaken he is unless he wants to. But I can tell. Hover will be an understatement. Until he resolves this, he’ll take away almost all my freedom to go anywhere. Frankly, I’m glad. The idea of going out and about, just like everything’s still normal, makes me want to heave. I don’t want to go anywhere without him. I’ll stay put if he can’t be with me. Taking command of this and asserting control is the only way Cormac can handle this unpredictability. I know it’s his worst nightmare. Me relinquishing control will make both of us feel better.

I feel like shit, so why wouldn’t I want to be taken care of? I wish he were back here, holding me again. If the pain meds are kicking in, I can’t tell. This conversation’s making me want to hurl—that was a strange phrase to learn when I came to America, but the word fits the feeling.

“I’m sorry you’re injured, but this disruptive behavior means I need to write you up again. I’ll investigate today’s accusation further, but just not showing up and causing other people to cover your work is unacceptable.”

“I’ve called out unexpectedly before when I’ve gotten sick. I did it three months ago when I got food poisoning from the menudo I ate only to be polite.”

I hate the soup. I don’t like hominy, and I can’t stand tripe. I only had some because I felt backed into a corner and didn’t want to offend the family. I barely choked it down, and I knew something was off. The tripe wasn’t prepared properly. My stomach hurts just thinking about it.

“You didn’t give me a hard time about that.”

“You threw up at your desk. I had to let you go home.”

Those gastro pyrotechnics were quite spectacular. I barely got to the trash can in time.

“If you persist with these unsubstantiated claims and reprimands, I’ll file a grievance with the Department of Social Services commissioner and HRA. I’m certain Human Resources will understand my concern about a hostile work environment.”

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